


a fool's moon

by judda



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judda/pseuds/judda
Summary: a grey crow, a white crow; Tormund does not care for they are all his and loved to death





	a fool's moon

The cold wind hit him like a wave of bricks. Jon shivered underneath his single layer of clothes, rubbing his arms. He lamently started regretting the choice to have come out from the warmths of the tent.

But he had heard a bellowing laughter from outside, deep and large, obnoxious and so-so very familare it made his skin prickle. Then again, maybe it was simply the merciless cold of the dead of the night pushing past the rather thin fabric. Maybe the voice was just a feverish fabrication of his mind.

It was quite again, and for a moment his heart dropped to the bottom of the earth with heavy disappointment. His eyes began to sting. He told himself it was the cold wind responsible.

He almost had turned his back on the empty night, his body aching for rest and warmth, his cheeks burning despite the cold. His clogged nose made it hard to breath, his open mouth breathing out white clouds, only visible thanks to the full moon.

A full moon. Jon looked up at it thinking wistfully back to when it was still only a crescent gracing the sky. When he had held his love for the last time in a long while.

He stayed, the cold wind quenching out raw tears, the droplets accumulating in the deep crow's feet of his face. The sight of a burning mane of hair is the greatest reward anybody could have offered him. A striking shadow, dark and tall but Jon would've known him in blindness.

His feet carried him more out of an instinctive urge than anything else. He's drawn like a moth to light, like the sea to the moon.

He crushed into a soft wall of wet, filthy furr. But he did not care, burying his heated face into it. The scent dismantled him, so familiar yet odd, almost forgotten. His chest felt large yet he gasped for air. He was received by a surprised grunt then a deep chuckle that made the great body Jon held too tightly onto vibrate.

“Someone seems to have missed me.” Tormund’s voice and the hand at the back of his head chipped away the last bit of doubt. Jon finally allowed himself to melt into the touch.

He smiled before tightening his grip around the man's waist. He had no witty remark left, any syllable he tried to form wrapping itself around his tongue, keeping it still.

Tormund made a disapproving noise at the back of his throat. “Someone really stupid, I see. No matter how high your fever, it won't protect you from frostbites gnawing on you.”

Closing his eyes, Jon let a shiver shake him fully conscious. Tormund laughed and apparently easily infected, Jon joined the mirth.

The next rough wind sweeped them into the safety of the tent. There Jon helped the other man undo the belts and remove the layers of water drained, heavy wool and fur.

“I wish I had come with you,” Jon said wistfully as they both sat next to the furrs, the fire keeping them warm. To stay behind because of an infection; he was not found of being pitiable. But then again, maybe it had been a bad one if he still was feeling the symptoms of fever; a heavy head, and clammy, torrid skin. The irony of his body overheating in the heart of winter.

Tormund squeezed his shoulder, holding Jon's heavy-lidded gaze. “There will be other times.” But the years won't stop passing and Jon's hair won't stop paling. Tormund seemed to have sensed his train of thoughts, his hand wandering up Jon's neck to clasp his cheek. “Don't tell me you're worried about getting old, eh?”

Jon smiled ruefully, brows always twisting his face into a sad expression. The addition of deeper lines and creases only accentuating that tortured face. “My body's becoming weaker with every year” As resilient as he had been against past horrors and harsh weathers, he was completely defenseless against the simple force of aging. “You might not grey as quickly as me, but you too are aging;” Jon hands clasped around Tormund’s, still placed on his hot cheek. “We're getting slower and weaker, wretched and lame.”

Tormund squeezed Jon's cheek with a painful fondness, his eyes softening but not losing their piercing conviction. “So what of it?”

After so many years, Tormund still managed to strike Jon dumb with astonishment every now and again. It was such a simple reply, there was no argument worthwhile. Jon's eyes went north, the floor suddenly much more interesting. No way Tormund would let him.

He tilted Jon's chin up and ran his thumb over the dark grey beard. “You're still as pretty as the first day, Jon.” Oh, and he meant it wholeheartedly, it was impossible to look into his eyes.

A different kind of warmth bloomed over Jon's face and down his neck. Jon had never been good with genuine compliments, never will be. Tormund took perfectly advantage of it. His looks always have been Jon's least worries. He never had planned to woe anybody with them. From a young age and onwards he was deadsett on joining the Nightwatch. Compliments he had received were backhanded and cynical, only spoken to ridicule him. Even Tormund’s had been at first. Till they weren't.

Jon shuffled closer on his knees, craning his neck so his lips touched Tormund's. They kissed gingerly and without a care in the world till Tormund’s fingers began pulling Jon's shirt away, exposing blemished, rugged skin.

Jon pulled slowly away from the kiss but his body pushed into Tormund's, aching for the bodily warmth. His speech was a hot breath against Tormund's mouth. “I want this to be eternal,” he said and he knew it was selfish and impossible to ask. A dream that only tortured his presence on earth.

Tormund frowned first then placed a peck on Jon's cheek and pulled him closer with his arms around the man's wait. “It doesn't have to be, little crow. I will find you in your next life. And the one following it. And so on and on.” To feel so wanted filled Jon's chest with unbelievable joy and turned his guts into a wild hoard. He nuzzled his head into Tormund's hair, smelling distantly of water and salt.

“Not if I find you first,” he spoke into Tormund's hair, his hands cradling his rough beard. He felt the other man smile into his chest. Then a bite that almost made Jon yelp but he hissed instead, his fingers twisting into the strainy hair.

“Are you sure about this?” The man looked up with wide blue eyes from where he was slowly but surely kissing and nibbling his way past the waistband of Jon's pants

“Am I sure about fucking you? What kind of question is is that?”

Jon snickered, appreciating the zeal. “Aren't you tired?” After all he just came back from a lengthy mission. One Jon would've loved to join.

Tormund was having none of it. He straightened his posture and leveled Jon with a serious glare. “The day I'm too tired to fuck you is the day I drop dead.”

Jon laughed and threw his around Tormund's neck. “Alright, you old fool.”

And there it was. That warming look of those icy, blue eyes that made Jon's heart flutter against his chest like message ravens in their cages. A visceral infatuation he used to not be able to place. One that expected nothing of him in return, only asked for his return. How rare a expression like that was in the south. It never failed to take Jon's breath away.

“Only for you,” he said softly. Jon snickered and kissed him with a wide grin and true intention.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading


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